


The Different Drummer

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor thinks Elrond needs a warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Different Drummer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isisisatis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=isisisatis).



Ever had the Hall of Fire been a magical place, a peaceful realm made of its own stuff, where all who entered fell to a trance of their imaginings while the music played. Most often, they gathered there in the night, built the fires up high, threw their mysterious bags of herbs to the flames, and played music and sang songs late into the eve.

But even during the silent hours of a summer afternoon, the magic of the place still lingered, and it was all too easy to meditate there, where sounds from the outside world never seemed to penetrate, and solitude could be found even in the company of others.

It was not uncommon for Imladris’s Lord to take his lunch there, in a mystical place where few others venture during daylight hours, hours when slanted sunbeams played host to the rising dust, and high corners echoed soundless noises. He would eat in silence and then sit, allowing his mind some moments of calm in his otherwise strenuous life.

One day, as he followed his ritual, balancing a tray in one hand and opening the door with the other, Elrond entered the Hall of Fire to find that not only was the place inhabited, but also filled with music.

The lilting notes of a flute died out, but were endlessly resounded alongside the creaking of the door, as Elrond stood framed by the shadow of the dark corridor behind him, looking in.

Elrond found, at the far end of the Hall, perched on a tall stool before one of the smaller fireplaces, an Elf of pale skin and paler hair, bamboo flute steady in long-fingered hands.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Elrond said. His voice was not loud, but it did not need to be, even to traverse the great distance between he and his listener. But he did not sound sorry, and he made no move as though to leave. Instead, he entered and the door creaked softly shut behind him.

He was Lord there, after all.

He walked sedately down the open length of the pillared Hall until he was near enough the musician to see him properly. Elrond set his brass tray down upon a table, one of those massive old things that had been around as long as the Hall itself, just rough wood, hammered together by pegs instead of nails. He sat upon the matching bench, robes whispering almost ominously about his form, as though concealing something magic and secret. “Good day,” he told the musician, as a statement, rather than a greeting.

Wide eyes blinked green and silver, like poplar leaves in the wind. “Good day, my Lord.” The voice was soft and low. Beautiful.

“Lindir, aren’t you?” Elrond said.

Lindir continued his blinking, as though trying to clear something from his vision, as though dubious of the reality of his visitor.

Elrond picked up his fork, and he made an elegant gesture. “Would you continue.” It was not a question.

Lindir had been told that Elrond was not soft by nature, but he was a healer. Surely he should be kind, welcoming? No matter. Lindir lifted his flute to resume his practice.

As the lilting tune began again, the room filled with the vibrato of silver sound. The tune rose, fell, twirled about the rafters, slid down to caress the floor.

And Elrond demurely consumed his luncheon, seemingly indifferent to beauty swelling the air about him, ringing gentle and seductive in his ears.

Lindir did not cease his play until Elrond set down his fork with a near-silent clink of metal on ceramic.

Again the Hall was haunted by the long-finished music of the minstrel. “Beautiful.”

Lindir’s cool green eyes widened again, and his pale lips parted, though he knew not what to say.

“Beautiful,” Elrond repeated, “A true master of your craft.”

“Oh,” Lindir said, blushing. “I’m not a master.”

“Well, you are no longer an apprentice,” Elrond told him with a birdlike tilt of the head. “You are a professional of your craft, and you are on your own. You have pupils already, I think. What is that, if not a master?”

Lindir gasped and looked beyond Elrond to something the Lord could not see.

Turning his dark head, Elrond couldn’t decide whether or not he was surprised to find Erestor standing in the middle of the hall. Only his Chief Counselor could enter through a creaking door, stand in the center of a sunlit hall, and not be seen or heard. “Counselor,” said Elrond. “You surprised us.”

Ever proper, the tall Elf bowed, in both greeting and apology. He said nothing.

Elrond stood, his robes again whispering their secrets to the cool stone floor. “Have you met our new minstrel? Lindir, this is Erestor.”

Lindir fumbled to his feet, but then stood proudly and bowed. “My pleasure.”

Erestor glared at him. Then, turned his head to Elrond. “A word?”

“Certainly,” Elrond approved, turning his back without another thought or word for the musician.

Lindir watched them go, tall and dark, steady and proud, retreating down the Hall and out the creaking door.

He sat down.

He looked at Elrond’s fork.

= = = = =

“Why is it that I’m the only one who insists on logic during our most trying times? And it looks as though I shall be the voice of reason again, and be the one to warn you.”

Elrond did not sigh. He did not have to. “What are you blathering on about?”

The corridor was oddly deserted during the lunch hour. Perhaps Erestor’s cool aura warned away common pedestrians.

“That boy. In the Hall.”

“Lindir is hardly a boy.”

“Near enough,” Erestor grumbled. Erestor always grumbled. Unless he was growling. The difference between the two was small, but discernible.

“What is your problem with Lindir?” Elrond asked.

“I’ve seen you watching him,” Erestor said. “I’ve seen you follow him about.”

“Has he seen me?” Elrond coolly asked.

“No. But you approached him today.”

“I always eat in the Hall.”

“Not always.”

“He’s never been there before.”

“Elrond.”

“What?”

They stopped, faced one another in the corridor. Voices, happy voices, echoed to them from elsewhere.

“He’s a minstrel.”

Elrond’s lips betrayed the first smirk he’d worn in many days. “I’d noticed.”

Erestor frowned and turned away. “There is an old saying, Elrond. ‘Loving a minstrel is easy. But he will only ever love his music.’”

Elrond nearly laughed. “Love? I’ve barely spoken to the boy!”

“Oh, now he’s a boy?”

Frowning at his advisor, all sense of amusement gone, Elrond said, “I have seen fit, as per your request, to refrain from involving myself in your love life. I should expect you to do the same.”

“I must remind you,” Erestor growled (definitely a growl this time) “that I did not HAVE a ‘love life’ until you interfered.”   
“And such a shame it was.”

They stood still in the corridor, looking at one another.  
 Elrond reminded himself that Erestor was his Chief Counselor for a reason. “Fine. Care to expand upon the ‘old saying’?” He wouldn’t have asked it, except Erestor’s eyes were not angry or cold, only worried and thoughtful, though he tried to hide it.

“Elrond. Imagine a life with him. This poor sapling overshadowed by an old oak. How can any such--” He stopped. He looked down the corridor.

Lindir stood watching them with unreadable eyes.

Elrond examined the minstrel with penetrating discernment. “Lindir. I’d like to speak with you.”

He didn’t even deign to flash Erestor a warning glare as he left.

Erestor watched the pair walk away, tall and different, unaccustomed and shy.

“Minstrels.”

= = = = =

The End


End file.
